An Adversary
by Ragdoll753
Summary: Teatime is back! Bet you haven't heard that one before . But there's a new assassin in town, who's bogarting all the clients. Tension ensues! Forgive the title, if it lacks creativity. Reviews are always appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers Are Fun!: Discworld is a product of Terry Pratchett's imagination, and it does not belong to me, blah, blah, blah...

A/N: Okay, so anyone that's read my stories before knows that I have a tendency to get about halfway through and then just... Stop. But I really think things might work out this time! I've already got a buncha chapters written, and I'm having lots of fun with it, and I've already gotten most of the story arch figured out. Anywho, I haven't written in a damn long time, so I'm a bit out of practice, so try and find it in your hearts to forgive that. I've wanted to do a Discworld fic for ages, and I did my best with this chapter, but I'm still not sure I'm totally happy with it, so when I beg you for reviews, as I usually do, know that there is also an implied request for constructive criticism. Thanks a bunch!

A/N/N: Also, anyone that's read my other stuff will know that I'm prone to obscenely long author notes. I apologize for that, as well.

* * *

Ridiculous. Utterly, completely, and wholly ridiculous in every way.

This was the recurring thought, phrased in a myriad of other ways (with a myriad of other, often more obscene, adjectives), that stuck in the head of the girl with the fiery orange eyes. A scowl sat firmly and sourly on the girls ashen features as she stormed down the snowy streets of Ankh-Morpork. A black cloak billowed behind her, and citizens darted out of her way in a most frightened manner, although few could tell you why, as her slender figure couldn't rightly be called imposing. Regardless, she was dressed like an assassin – and an angry assassin was not one to annoy.

"Decline my application, will they?" she muttered to herself. "Well, we'll just see about that...Totally _ridiculous_..."

She turned down a side street, and hurried up the front steps of a shabby little cottage. Throwing the door open, she stepped inside. She tore the black leather gloves off her hands as if they had done her a monumental injustice, and brushed snow viciously out of the acorn-colored hair that sat in a short pixie-cut atop her head. She tugged the cloak off her shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby table, then proceeded to thunder up the stairs with every intention of throwing herself into a nice, hot bath and enjoying a cup of tea. However, her dreams of herb-infused beverages and lavish-smelling soaps were to be short-lived, as the grim realization soon came to her that her pipes were frozen.

Today was not going so very well for Deirdre Mulloy.

* * *

Death strode down the long, endless aisles of his Room of Lifetimers, peering carefully at its inhabitants. He passed quite a bit of time hereabouts, and rather enjoyed the very soft _hiss_ that came with grains of sand being funneled through the slender glass forms. He was about to turn a corner, when something quite unusual caught his eye. He turned, and bent his head low to examine the oddity.

OH, DEAR... Death said fretfully, wondering what to make of this discovery. ALBERT? He called tentatively. WOULD YOU MIND HAVING A LOOK AT SOMETHING..?

He heard the stumbling footsteps of his butler echoing through the halls. Albert soon turned down the aisle where Death stood, now holding his find in one, bony hand.

"Yes?" Albert asked, stepping toward his master with a frying pan, containing Gods knew what, clutched in one hand. "Yes, what is it?"

Death held up the object in question. It was, of course, one of his near-infinite number of hourglasses. But there was something a bit funny going on. The sand inside the glass was in a frenzy -- ricocheting off the walls of its container, stirring itself up in a most peculiar fashion.

Being something Death had never seen before, this on its own would have been unsettling enough. But to make matters much, much worse, the name etched oh-so-elegantly on the outside of the glass was, in fact, Jonathan Teatime.

* * *

Jonathan Teatime was walking slowly through a place that was very much _not_ a place. Leastways, not like any place he'd ever been. It was vast and seemingly empty, although there was a very dim light coming from... _somewhere_, that was allowing Mr. Teatime to observe his surroundings, or lack thereof. Was this a corporeal embodiment of his mind, perhaps? He pushed the philosophical thought away. His mind may very well have been dark, and it was certainly vast, but if it was anything, it was_not _empty.

"So," said Mr. Teatime softly to himself. "This is... Death." He allowed for a small smile, in spite of himself and his current state.

NOT QUITE, MISTER TEATIME.

Teatime's heart skipped a beat, and he turned on his heel, before hurriedly regaining his composure. He wasn't entirely sure he'd ever been snuck up on before. He looked inquisitively at Death, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"This isn't death?" he asked. "But I was quite certain..." He looked pointedly down at his chest, from which there was protruding a very sharp fire poker.

ER... THIS IS SOMEWHAT EMBARRASSING, ACTUALLY... YOU SEE, YOU AREN'T REALLY SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD JUST YET.

Teatime grinned his wicked, disconcerting grin, and crossed his arms over his torso, careful to avoid the metal rod that had impaled him, as the wound was still a bit raw.

"Well, this _is_ interesting..." he said, barely containing his glee. "Now, I don't mean to argue," Teatime said, brimming with charm. "But I pretty definitely remember dying. I'm not sure I see how this is all fitting together."

WELL, STRICTLY SPEAKING, DEATH ISN'T SUPPOSED TO KILL PEOPLE.

Teatime furrowed his brow, and opened his mouth to ask a question.

BY 'DEATH' I DO, OF COURSE, MEAN MYSELF. Death corrected himself. PARDON MY MISSPEAKING. ANYWAY, MY DUTY IS TO TAKE SOULS FROM THE DECEASED. I DO NOT GET TO CHOOSE WHO IS TO DIE AND WHEN. THE SAME RULE APPLIES TO SUSAN. AS SUCH, WHEN SHE... DID AWAY WITH YOU, SHE WAS IN VIOLATION OF A CERTAIN CODE OF CONDUCT. IT IS BASED ENTIRELY ON A TECHNICALITY, HOWEVER, AND I IMAGINE IT SHOULD IN NO WAY INTERFERE WITH YOUR AFTERLIFE.

"What a marvelously fascinating loop-hole " Teatime intoned, exuding pure pleasure.

Death (who, incidentally, did not see this loop-hole as Marvelously Fascinating, and in fact found it to be more accurately described as Utterly Inconvenient or Extremely Annoying) grimaced.

"So, if this isn't death... What is it?"

THINK OF IT AS A KIND OF... WAITING ROOM. WE'RE STILL IN THE PROCESS OF DECIDING HOW BEST TO DEAL WITH YOU, AS IT WERE.

"Aha... And how long will I be waiting?"

IT SHOULDN'T BE MUCH LONGER. THERE ARE ONLY HAVE TWO OPTIONS, REALLY. EITHER YOU WILL GO BACK TO THE WORLD OF THE LIVING UNTIL YOUR TRUE TIME COMES, OR YOU WILL STAY DEAD. I'M RATHER INCLINED TOWARD THE LATTER, BUT IT'S NOT EXACTLY MY PLACE TO DECIDE.

"Oh. I see."

* * *

A/N: Whooooooooooo! Remember those reviews I mentioned before? Yeah. Now is when you write them. 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Told you it'd be up this weekend. Sah-weet.

* * *

Deirdre Mulloy was able to fully comprehend death by the tender age of four. Being raised as the youngest of seven, with only brothers, all of whom studied at the Assassins' Guild School, there was little to do by way of avoiding an early introduction to mortality. 

She thrived on her eldest brother's stories of the school -- the initiation ceremonies of his Cobra House, horrific memories of the Wall Game, and old tales of the more famous Assassins to graduate from the school.

At age seven, she was informed that there was a House in the school just for girls. The Black Widow House. She lived for the idea of applying when she was of age.

By eight, she was dressing all in black.

By twelve, she was accomplished in several different forms of hand-to-hand combat, and could wield a sword with fantastic grace.

When she turned fourteen, her parents enrolled her into the school, just like her brothers before her. She had a bit of a knack for finding ways to humiliate and upset her schoolmates.

But as she reached the end of her teen years, she graduated, and had typically received top marks in her classes, particularly in the Stealth category. Also, she could play the cello quite well.

At age 20, she was in a foul mood. After spending several hours in her dank cellar in a vain attempt to thaw out her pipes, she had been forced to give up. Resolving to give it another go in the morning, she found her way upstairs to her room and tumbled onto the bed. Deirdre stared up at her ceiling, a bitterness still traced across her face.

She hadn't been accepted into the Guild of Assassins. It was madness. She had devoted her childhood to studying all of the glorious intricacies, the graceful maneuvers, and the most famous assassinations. Then she had spent her young-adulthood dealing with the sadists the school had employed as teachers. It was all a waste.

She sighed dramatically and rubbed the bridge of her nose. What were her options? Killing was all she knew. She couldn't very well go pleading with Lord Downey for a second chance. She didn't see him as being a particularly sympathetic individual; besides which, her pride couldn't stand for such a thing. There had to be another way in...

Perhaps there was. Deirdre sat up very slowly. Who said she needed to be Guild? Sure, it may seem a bit more prestigious, but she was just as good as any fancy Guild-member, if not better.

Deirdre was standing now, and pacing back and forth, trying to get her thoughts straight. Surely there were Assassins outside the Guild. And if there weren't, Deirdre saw no harm in being a trendsetter.

She was onto something now. She could go under the radar, as it were, finding clients by her own means. There were plenty of citizens of Ankh-Morpork wanted other citizens dead. The Guild was being downright _greedy_ thinking they were the only ones fit to take care of these matters.

Deirdre stopped in the middle of her room, hands set on her hips in a most determined fashion. She cast her eyes about for a moment, wondering only briefly if this was the best idea, before turning out her bedroom door. She proceeded to hurry down the stairs, snatched up her cloak from its lumpy position on the table and flung it about her shoulders. She tossed the front door wide open and vanished into the wintry night.

* * *

Jonathan Teatime was lying comfortably on his back on the black ground of the wherever-space that he was currently occupying. His hands formed a nice pillow underneath his blonde head. Today was turning out to be most unusual. After spending his morning being done in by a governess, then finding out that it had been, for all intents and purposes, _illegal_ for her to have done so, he was now awaiting the verdict as to whether or not he was to be returned to his former life. 

JONATHAN TEATIME.

The recently-deceased Assassin rose in one fluid movement at the sound of Death's voice. The anthropomorphic personification had returned, this time in the company of a raven that was perched on the skeleton's shoulder. The epitome of formidable. But Teatime feared not. Raising his eyebrows in anticipation, he awaited his judgement.

I AM AFRAID I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS.

Teatime's face fell and he sighed. Oh well. At least he had had some hope for a little -

"Wait." Teatime said suddenly. "Bad news for me, or bad news for you?"

Death remained silent for a moment, which was answer enough for Teatime. He smiled wickedly.

I FEAR IT HAS BEEN THE DECISION OF THE GODS THAT YOU BE RETURNED TO YOUR MORTAL LIFE.

Teatime grinned a grin of satisfaction.

FAREWELL, JONATHAN TEATIME. said Death, with a deep sigh of regret.

Teatime gave an elaborate bow, before the world turned upside down, and he disappeared.

* * *

A/N: So, I've got to apologize if parts of this chapter kind of felt like filler, because, to be totally honest, it kind of is. There were just a few things I needed to address so that we can get on with it and into the real goodness of the story. Also, I'm sorry if this one's a little short... Again, I'm feeling a little insecure about this chapter, so any comments are appreciated! 


	3. Chapter 3

A man by the name of Mr. Rocha was attempting to walk, with as much subtlety as possible, out of the Royal Guild of Assassins.

Mr. Rocha was a soft-spoken man, who minded his own business and was not particularly prone to involvement in organized crime. Referring to the Guild was a plan hatched, not by himself, but by his wife, who seemed to think it was the only way they were going to get anywhere in the pie-making industry. How she came to this conclusion was unclear. But, while Mr. Rocha couldn't help but feel that murder in the name of Pies was a bit of a stretch, he also didn't fancy a row with the Misses.

There was a back door reserved for the use of Lord Downey's special clients so as to avoid suspicion, and Mr. Rocha was taking full advantage. The door was conveniently located in a cramped back alley, which a very slim number of Ankh-Morporkians were even aware of. Unfortunately for Mr. Rocha, a young woman named Deirdre Mulloy was among them.

"Can't see why you would bother with the Guild..." her voice sounded casual in the dim alley. Mr. Rocha started and turned on his heel to locate the source of the noise. Finally his eyes happened upon her slender form, barely visible in the darkness. She was leaning nonchallantly against the brick wall of the building that stood next to the Guild (which, incidentally, was inhabitated by an extremely punctilious shoemaker), and was inspecting her fingernails very closely.

"Who-who are you?" asked Mr. Rocha. Deirdre smirked. This was a man new to the assassination game. It was written all over his face and constricting his voice. "W-What's that you said about the Guild?"

"Apologies." was the sweet reply. "My name is Deirdre, and I'm here to offer you some friendly advice. You see, the trouble with Guild work is there's no telling what direction things could go. Think of it, you don't even get to choose who's taking care of your... Business dealings. All sorts of messy things could happen. And don't think they haven't. No, the truth is, you're really better off hiring someone who can add more of a... Personal touch." She gave him a smile. "That's where I come in. You tell me the where and the who and I promise to get the job done faster," she took a step toward him, "more neatly," another step, "and with far more style than anyone at the Guild ever could." She was now inches from his face, and he could see something slightly unbalanced in the expression of her bright eyes.

The look on Mr. Rocha's face was one of utter bewilderment. He had time to briefly wonder how this had all gotten so muddied up, before his new acquaintance had thrown an arm around his shoulders and was leading him out of the alley.

"I think we ought to have a chat about your options..." said Deirdre.

* * *

Jonathan Teatime gave a cat-like stretch in the late-afternoon sun. He was only vaguely aware that the fire poker (of which he was beginning to grow quite fond) was no longer protruding so inelegantly from his chest.

He headed into the bustling city of Ankh-Morpork. He had business to attend to with someone by the name of Susan Sto-Helit. She had something that belonged to him.

He couldn't rightly go around with only one eye, now could he? Some people might call that downright unsettling...

By the time he reached the house, it was well after dusk, but he didn't mind. He hadn't anywhere to be in a hurry. He trotted up the front steps and waltzed in as if he owned the place. It was quiet inside, and dark. He shrugged and began the search.

Room by room, he searched -- the parlor, the kitchen, the school room, not worrying himself with why the house was so empty. He was crouched over the wooden toy chest in the children's bedroom, digging through it's contents, when Susan found him. He smiled when he sensed her standing behind him. She probably thought she was being so terribly sneaky. He ignored her and continued to dig until she spoke at him.

"I killed you." she said, her voice livid. "And I have no qualms whatever about doing it again."

"Perhaps not the wisest move." Teatime said, as he stood and turned to face her. Her hair was in it's usual tight bun, and her eyes were full of a familiar animosity. There was a fire-poker in her hand.

"Any chance you've seen my eye lying around?" he asked conversationally.

"Not wise?" she asked incredulously, entirely ignoring his question. "You tried to kill me. And my Grandfather. I can't really imagine why it might not be considered wise to be rid of you." Her voice was now shaking with anger, but she held her weapon steadily aimed at his throat.

It was causing him unknown joy to be fully confident that Susan killing him wasn't allowed. Particularly when she clearly wasn't aware of it.

"Yes, well, I'm afraid we ran into some complications when you offed me last time around." he said cheerily. "I dare say it wouldn't be in your best interests to give it another go. Aha! Here we are..." he breezed past her, in the direction of the far corner of the room.

Susan was a bit shaken by his blatant indifference toward her. She turned and followed him with her eyes as he bent down and picked up something that looked like a black marble. His back still to her, she could see him dusting it off on his shirt, and raise it to his face. There was an extremely unpleasant _pop_ noise, and he turned round to face her once again.

"You've been dead for nearly three months." she said through gritted teeth, as though saying it would return him to his recent state.

"Three months? Really?" he asked, with a bemused smile. "It felt like hardly a day..."

"I imagine time travels a bit differently... Over there." she said, traces of malice still lining her voice.

"Simply fascinating." he said, seeming genuinely intrigued. "Well, I'm afraid I must be off," he announced, feigning regret. "I believe I must have a meeting with Lord Downey." He gave her a friendly and sickening smile and disappeared.

* * *

A/N -- Ohhhh, didn't think you would get away from this chapter without an author's note, did you? Ha ha! Not a chance. Anyway, I want you all to know that I don't typically make a habit of blatantly telling what's to come in my stories, but I wanted to take this opportunity to make one thing clear -- it never was, nor is it now, my intention to make this a Susan story, let alone Susan/Teatime. Nothing against stories like that, it's just not what I wanted to do. Anyway, I put this little conversation with them in there 'cause it was necessary. I'm pretty certain at this point we won't be seeing much, if any, more of Susan, lovely though she may be. Anywho, reviews are appreciated as always. Hope you guys liked the chapter! 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N -- So, as you may have guessed, I'm feeling super-guilty about the fact that I promise I'd have something up last week, and then it never happened. Vacation turned out to be more chaotic than I had imagined it would be. But I finally finished the chapter, and chapter five is already almost done, so it should be up fairly soon. Certainly by next weekend at the latest. Anyway, I hope the chapter's okay!

* * *

Lord Downey was having a truly splendid afternoon. Tea was marvelous, he'd single-handedly procured more than a half dozen contracts since noon, and he was even feeling light-hearted enough to appreciate the gorgeous weather of early spring that could be seen outside the windows of his elaborate office. Unfortunately, his good mood was about to come crashing down around him.

As he sat down at his desk, he began to look over some very official and very confidential paperwork. There was a light tap on the door.

"Yes, come in," Lord Downey called distractedly. The door creaked open and he looked up to see a small head poking in. "What is it?"

"Your appointment is here, Lord." the diminutive servant answered.

"Appointment? I haven't got any appointments for the next hour. Who...?" but the servant had already left, the door had closed and now a new voice was speaking on the other side of the room.

"Long time, no see, Lord Downey!"

If the head of the Guild of Assassins had been a man prone to displaying emotions on his face, this is where his jaw would have dropped. As it was, he simply stared. Stared at a man with perfect, blond curls, mismatched eyes, and a smile that would make the strongest, most impressive men feel queasy.

"Mr. Teatime," he said after a long moment of stunned silence, during which the visitor simple beamed at him. His voice was soft, but at least he had managed to keep the shake out of it. "What a... pleasant surprise." He paused another moment. Then, "You died."

Teatime frowned. "You know people keep telling me that, as though they think I don't already know." he shook his head, then turned away from Downey and stepped over to a large bookshelf and carefully inspected the variety of trinkets that sat on it. He continued to speak, not bothering to elaborate on his return from the grave. "I realize things went a bit south on my last contract, but I was rather hoping you still had room for me, here at the Guild?"

"Certainly not!" Downey said. In his state of dazed shock, he had been only half-listening as the Assassin spoke to him, but the outlandish suggestion at the end jarred him back to reality.

This was not the answer Teatime had expected. He turned back to the Guild Master, concern in his eyes. "Pardon me?" he asked, his voice sharp.

"Surely you can't imagine we would still consider allowing you membership after the God-awful mess you made on Hogswatch Night!" Lord Downey had stood up and crossed to Teatime. Had Teatime not ended up dead of his own accord after Hogswatch, Downey had had every intention of seeing to it that he be killed by their own people. Downey still had the same plan in mind.

However... Downey thought, he _is_ a gifted Assassin. If he came back from the dead once, who's to say he wouldn't do it again?

Lost in contradictory thoughts, Downey just stared at Teatime, and Teatime stared determinedly back.

"Give me one contract." Teatime said, very business-like. "One contract, and if I don't handle it with the utmost grace and elegance, you have every right to turn me away."

Lord Downey looked back and forth between Teatime's eyes. They gave you a very startling sensation. You could look at one and think it horrible and disturbing and that nothing could compare to its eeriness. And then you'd look at the other and sure enough it would be more unsettling still and that no eye could be more sinister. And then you'd look at the first again, and it would be more dreadful than you'd even remembered, and so on.

"One contract." Downey said through his teeth after a long while. "One contract, and if it doesn't meet my every level of expectation, you will be gone."

Teatime smiled once again, very suddenly, as though the tension had been sapped from the room.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "So, who is the lucky soul?"

* * *

Some were more difficult to convince than others, but Deirdre found that nine times out of ten, gaining a contract was easy as pie. After that first evening with Mr. Rocha, who fell victim easily to her convincing arguments and securing her first client, she had made a habit of frequenting the alley behind the Assassin's Guild. She had been amazed to find how timid most of them were, after coming from their meetings with Lord Downey. Most were so far out of their element, they would listen to every word that came out of her mouth, too terrified to voice an opinion. It almost sickened her. But it was an advantage, and she didn't complain.

In a month and a half, she'd inhumed at least one individual a week, and it was getting easier all the time. She covered her tracks, but she was sure it was only a matter of time until the Guild finally caught on to her operation. But she would deal with that when the time came. For now, she was unstoppable.

* * *

"GRANDFATHER!" Susan Sto-Helit called angrily. Her voice echoed through the cavernous halls of Death's home, but it was not quite right. The word came backwards "REHTAFDNARG!" He had never quite gotten the concept of echoes. Susan ignored it, and walked toward the kitchens, where she found Albert washing dishes in the sink. He looked up and smiled at her.

"Thought that was you I heard shrieking." he said cheerily. She opened her mouth, but he answered before she could ask: "He's out. On business, if you know what I mean."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Albert, I think we're a bit beyond insinuation in this family. You can just say so if he's out taking souls..." She leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms, chewing on her lip. "Damn..." she said softly. "I really wanted to see him."

"Oh, yeah?" asked Albert, grinning. "Finally starting to feel some affinity for the family, are you?"

Susan grimaced at the butler. "Pardon me: I _needed_ to see him._Business_, if you know what I mean." she said acidly.

"Business, eh? You aren't thinking of joining up with the family establishment for good?"

"_No_." she said forcefully. "It's not that, Albert. I..." she hesitated. "Teatime's come back, and I thought Grandfather ought to know so he can sort it out."

"Ohhhh, of course. That whole Teatime nonsense..."

Susan raised her eyebrows. "You know about this?" she asked sharply. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"Oh, I don't know." said Albert, now getting offensive himself. "It only just happened. Haven't had the time. And besides that... It's kind of your fault."

"My fault?" Susan shrieked. "How can this possibly be _my_ fault?"

"I'm not saying it was intentional or anything! You didn't know. These things happen..."

"Albert. What didn't I know?" she asked, stepping closer to him.

"Something about loopholes and how Death is only supposed to take souls," Albert tried to explain, "and since you _are_ Death, to a certain degree, that means you can only take souls too. No killing people and whatnot. The Gods got all in a huff about it."

"But he's evil! He must have killed several dozen people. Surely he deserved to die?"

"Yeah, well the Gods are sadists, aren't they?" Albert said. "Whether or not he deserved it hasn't got a whole lot to do with the rules. Anyway, the point is, he's back, and you can't go tryin' to kill him again, alright?"

Steaming, Susan stormed from the room without another word, and left the home of Death.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N -- Guess who feels _really _guilty? Emily does! I'm sorry, sorry, sorry everyone for having such a long break between postings, but the last couple of months have been seriously draining. But fear not! I still fully intend to finish this story, it's just going to take a while. I'm in two plays at the moment, which is weighing me down, but when they're done, I'd really like to get back in the game. For the time being, here's another chapter, along with my sincerest apologies. The first bit I think is a little bland, but it gets fun towards the end. Hope you all like it!

* * *

Teatime wondered from time to time how Downey could have thought there was any possibility that that one contract would have been performed with anything less than perfect satisfaction for all involved... Except, of course, for the most important person involved. But it had been. Teatime had come through with the grace and elegance he had promised and in the months since, Downey had not been able to find any concrete support for his desire to be rid of the man.

Teatime was now enjoying full membership of the Guild. He was one of the top Assassins, and was frequently out, fulfilling contracts. Downey certainly found ways to keep him busy.

It was late one evening when he found himself stalking around one of the more posh neighborhoods of Ankh. He had been sent out on a contract that would be involving one Mr Charles Blumstein.

He turned down a street of particularly impressive abodes, and looked from left to right, eventually spotting the house in question. He checked the address with the one he'd written on a slip of paper, glanced around to check for any suspicious individuals eyeing him, then dissappeared around the back of the residence.

It was not his style to be sneaking around to back doors, but it was a bit too light out for him to feel entirely secure. So, he climbed the steps up to the elaborate veranda that looked out over the back yard.

He could feel uneasiness the moment he stepped over the threshold. Someone was very nearby. His breathing slowed to allow for better hearing, and he stepped delicately through the kitchen.

He peered through a door into the unlit study just in time to see someone who looked an awful lot like Charles Blumstein having his throat slit. The backs of both killer and victim were to Teatime, and he took the opportunity to slide noiselessly into the study and dissolve into the shadows in the far corner of the room. He watched the murderer lower the body gently to the floor, check pulse and breath (or lack thereof) and stand slowly, silhouetted against the drawn curtains of the window.

* * *

Deirdre stood gracefully, a sly smile situated comfortably on her lips.

"Surely you can't imagine that I don't realize you're there?" she said without turning, while wiping her blade on her pants, being sure to clear off all the blood. "I'm quite aware that you're sitting in the corner next to the grandfather clock. You're not nearly as sneaky as you -"

She turned, and choked on her words when she was greeted with the sight of two asymmetrical eyes, mere inches from her own orange ones. She took a step backward, and forced her heartbeat back to a regular pace.

She wasn't entirely sure she'd ever been snuck up on before.

The face before her was pale and handsome, with perfect golden curls. If not for the eyes, it would have looked perfectly angelic. What irony. Deirdre knew perfectly well that she was in the company of a fellow Assassin.

"You really shouldn't be so over-confident." the face advised her. "If I were here for any kind of sinister reasons, you'd be quite a bit less alive at the moment." His lips curled into a smile that was both reassuring and disconcerting. Deirdre returned it.

"Well, then I guess this is my lucky night." she slid her dagger into its sheath on her belt, but kept her hand sitting loosely on the handle. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a rather large sum of money I ought to be collecting, so I'll just be off..." she stepped past her new acquaintance and headed toward the door, but soon there was a knife at her throat and a voice in her ear, as she expected there might be.

"I'm afraid I have something of a bone to pick with you before you go. You see, you've done me a great inconvenience." the voice whispered. "You have stolen my client from me, despite _my_ having signed his contract. Were this any other line of work, I might suggest we strike up a bargain. But short of returning Mr Blumstein to life so that I may take it from him once again, I'm curious as to how we might undo this wrong."

"On the contrary," Miss Mulloy said, and in one smooth movement had removed her dagger once more from its sheath and spun out of the blonde strangers grasp. They now stood facing each other, blades at one another's throats. "I can find no wrongs to be undone here. You see _I _have just completed _my _contract, and _I _will now be collecting _my _reward money. There's really no reason for you to involve yourself, so if you don't mind, I really should be going."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the man with the mismatched eyes blurted in an uncharacteristic display of aggravation.

"I'm an Assassin." she replied.

"Yes, well, I'd picked up on that much. Why are _you_ meddling in the contract that I rightfully acquired?"

"I'm freelance." she said, a bit reluctantly. "I'm not with the Guild. But I hear things. _Job _things, and a lot of times I can wheedle my way in before the Guild can send out one of theirs."

"Freelance?" asked the stranger, raising an eyebrow. He didn't look impressed. "You mean you're an assassin?" he asked, the lowercase 'a' somehow audible in his tone.

"_No_. I'm an Assassin." and the capital 'A' was somehow audible in hers. "Just because I don't belong to the Guild does _not_ mean I'm a lowly criminal. Surely you can appreciate professional work when you see it..." she smiled, and glanced past Teatime at the body on the floor. "Anyway, I applied at the Guild a while back, but there were... complications. So I decided to do things my own way." she gave the man a sweet smile, but it disappeared quickly. "By Io! I know you. You're Jonathon Teatime!"

"Teh-ah-tim-eh." he said coolly, slowly growing impatient with the proceedings, and feeling it would really be best for all involved if he could just get to killing her.

"I remember that whole mess with the Hogfather and the Tooth Fairy and such. They said you were going to be the best of our generation. You... You died, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, I was quite dead." he didn't bother to elaborate. "But this is all beside the point. I'd like to know how you intend to fix our situation."

"You don't get it, do you?" she said with a frown and a disgraced shake of the head. She gave him a charming smile, and before he had time to react, had re-sheathed her knife, and danced out of his reach. "I'm sure we'll meet again, Mister Teatime. In the meantime, best of luck explaining to Lord Downey why the Guild is out about twenty-thousand dollars!" She blew a kiss, and vanished.


End file.
